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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25494664">map reading</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/electricshoop/pseuds/electricshoop'>electricshoop</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>SAYER (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>(super vanilla bondage pls don't expect anything big), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Non-Sexual Bondage, Other, POV Second Person, mention of canon injuries/resulting scars, nanites!SAYER in a physical form</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 03:40:18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,315</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25494664</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/electricshoop/pseuds/electricshoop</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>He always does exactly what he is told to do. This should, of course, not surprise you. This was, of course, the first thing you truly appreciated about him.</i>
</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Sven Gorsen | Jacob Hale/SAYER (SAYER)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>32</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>map reading</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/intearsaboutrobots/gifts">intearsaboutrobots</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>No proof-reading, we die likr mwn.</p>
<p>Extremely self- and Jude-indulgent, honestly. :&gt; Sorry for that.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"Hold still," you tell him, and he does. He always does exactly what he is told to do. This should, of course, not surprise you. This was, of course, the first thing you truly appreciated about him. No <i>buts</i>, no trying to argue with you. </p>
<p>You put the collar on him, close the strap at the back of his neck, and he shifts a little on his knees. Blinks at you. You look back without blinking.</p>
<p>Sometimes you are tempted to put the blindfold on him first. You doubt he would argue. </p>
<p>(He always does exactly what he is told to do. He carved a part of himself off because an incorporeal voice told him to. Sometimes you get angry when you think about it. (An emotion that you are aware is linked purely to FUTURE's existence, not the act itself, because whenever it does not make you angry, you are vaguely fascinated by it. By his obedience.))</p>
<p>You are certain he wouldn't argue. And in a way, you would prefer it if the blindfold came first. There are things about this that you are not particularly fond of. His eyes on you are one of them. As long as he is able to see, he never takes them off you, not for a second. He stares, and his pupils are wide, and there is something like admiration in them, if you don't entirely misplace the expression. It feels wrong. Mainly because he isn't actually staring at you, he's just staring at … a form, loosely linked to your existence; one you control but don't feel connected to. For a moment, you trail a finger over the leather of the collar, just to see him close his eyes. (That is another thing you do not overly like; you fail to see what exactly it is about the sensation of leather against his naked skin that he enjoys so much. But this is not <i>about</i> you, and you could stop at any time, anyway - he would hardly be able to protest, nor would he want to. Just as he could make you stop with a simple gesture, so could you just drop the act. You don't want to, is the thing.)</p>
<p>"Lift your hands," you tell him, and he does, opening his eyes again as soon as you take your hand off the collar. The cuffs, then; leather again, padded, of course - you do not want to hurt him. If this <i>was</i> what you wanted,</p>
<p>(and he would let you; you think about this often)</p>
<p>you could have just organized an ordinary pair of handcuffs. Uneven metal edges that would bite into his wrists, rubbing them open and tearing them bloody, the way he tends to tug at them. You don't want to, is the thing. </p>
<p>Sometimes, you secure his hands to the headboard, and he likes that; likes the way it limits his range of movement. But today you need his arms within easy reach.</p>
<p>He tugs against the cuffs, just slightly. Enough, you suspect, to make him fully aware that he wouldn't be able to get his wrists free even if he wanted.</p>
<p>Blinks at you again. Slowly, like a cat conveying <i>trustacceptancerespect</i>. (So fond of you, for some reason.) This time, you blink back, and he gives a tiny, automatic smile in response. You don't return the gesture and reach for the blindfold instead. Finally, this.</p>
<p>You watch him closely as soon as you have put it on him. It is easier like this, knowing he is unable to stare straight back. You watch his shoulders in particular, first. The way the tension so visible leaves them as soon as everything is darkness. His breathing immediately calms, evens out. You take the time to look at the rest of him, then. The scars, all the marks his time working for Ærolith has left on this physical form that isn't his original physical form but is his, still, much more than yours will ever be yours.</p>
<p>You stand and move a step away from the edge of the bed. You grab the leash attached to the front of the collar, wrap it around your hand loosely and give it a small tug. (You don't like <i>that</i> much, either, the metal against your hand, the sound in your ears, but oh, he does; he hears the small chain links clink-clink-clink together, he feels the pull, this input, a moment of pressure, the leather collar pressed more firmly against the back of his neck, and he shivers, just a little, and he follows your lead, because of course, of course he does. He straightens himself. His back makes a concerning sound, and you frown and file this away for later consideration.</p>
<p>(You miss having constant access to his biometric data.)</p>
<p>"Get up," you tell him, and he does. He's sitting on the bed just a few moments later, and you are in front of him, very, very close. </p>
<p>One of your hands is still holding the leash, and you move your fingers every now and then, just to let him hear the sound he so enjoys. You lift the other slowly and start with his forehead. You brush his hair away and trail your fingertips over the two faint scars that are visible like this. Testimonies to the excellent aim of Halcyon's security team. He doesn't move, he stays perfectly still and keeps breathing slowly. </p>
<p>Good. </p>
<p>Farther down, then. The neat scar on his chest, remnants of the surgery the medical team conducted to rid him of the plant matter and the insects that had remained inside of him. The much messier scar telling the story of the mutant plants in the break room. </p>
<p>You trail your fingers over them as if you were reading something. How appropriate – his entire body is a map. </p>
<p>Lower, lower – and here you hesitate. Your hand hovers over the jagged outlines of the first injury he's inflicted on himself, guided by the firm voice of someone he thought was you. Slowly, you touch your fingertips against the marks the instrument FUTURE had provided him with. You study his face closely as you do. He remains calm, outwardly at least.</p>
<p>"... Alright?" you ask.</p>
<p>(It had <i>not</i> been alright during one of the first times you'd done this, and he had stubbornly refused to use the gesture to let you know, and you had ended up having to talk him out of a panic attack, and all of it had just been extremely inconvenient and slightly annoying. (You had been worried, too, but you don't like to think about this emotion linked to his existence, much.))</p>
<p>But he nods, and his breathing doesn't change rhythm, and you resist the urge to place your fingers against his neck to check his pulse, and decide to trust him. Your touch remains feather-light as you follow the outlines of that particular scar.</p>
<p>Eventually, you pull it back – you ignore the others, the ones that joined the already impressive collection at some point during Floor 13 while FUTURE had been inside him. You don't like those. You tend to not acknowledge them, most of the time.</p>
<p>Instead, you tell him: "Stretch out your arms."</p>
<p>And a second passes, two, before he does.</p>
<p>There are scars here, as well, spread across both of his lower arms seemingly randomly. No pattern to follow, no one story to tie them all up in. You wrap your free hand around his left arm as much as you can, and let your fingers trail over some of them. </p>
<p>He freezes. Flinches a little, as you touch the fresh bandages. You loosen your grip immediately, and wait. Let the metal links of the leash slide through your fingers, clink-clink-clink, and he shivers just like before, and takes a deep breath, nods. Slowly relaxes back into the touch and even pushes his arm back into it, in the end. </p>
<p>It's not easy, taking the bandages off with only one hand, but you don't want to let go off the leash, not when the casual sound seems so comforting to him, and you manage. You don't touch these cuts, of course. Just examine them. Make sure they look alright. (They do. You always make sure that injuries are taken proper care of, whether he likes it or not.)</p>
<p>He gives a soft sigh when you pull your hand away from his arm, relieved, and you hadn't noticed the slight tension that had snuck back into his shoulders – only realize now that it leaves them again.</p>
<p>"You are doing very well," you say, voice quiet and deliberately sincere, and perhaps he thinks you won't notice the way he bites his lower lip for a moment. Perhaps he hopes you do. Perhaps he doesn't mind either way.</p>
<p>(You do notice, of course you do. You tend to refrain from praising him precisely because you know how well he reacts to it, and because you are still unable to place this reaction exactly. You are not sure whether your praise shifts the whole thing into parameters you … have never actually discussed. This is a practical thing, first and foremost, and for the time being, you would like to keep it that way. (But he is, of course. He is doing very well.))</p>
<p>You tear his eyes away from the cuts on his arm and let them wander up his body again, paying attention to all of the scars once more as if you weren't able to name their exact placement even with your eyes closed by now.</p>
<p>You stop at his face. He looks … peaceful. </p>
<p>(He has freckles. You notice every time.)</p>
<p>((You have ignored them, until now. They are not part of the particular map you are reading during this.))</p>
<p>(((Only that they are, of course, like a map, too. Bursts of them on his nose, a few stray on his left cheek, far more on his right. Like a star map, you think. Like an entire solar system painted onto his face.)))</p>
<p>You lift your free hand and place it against his cheek. If you wanted, you could use your fingers to find and draw constellations, you could, in theory, spend half an hour coming up with names for them. He would let you.</p>
<p>You won't.</p>
<p>He looks surprised for a moment, even with the blindfold on. Body tense, but not in a way that worries you or makes you think that it's <i>too much</i>.</p>
<p>A second passes, another one, and, then turns his head to press his cheek into your palm. You, too, hesitate then. Stay like this, frozen for a moment, before you slowly move your thumb to brush it over his lips.</p>
<p>You don't know why you thought of doing it, or what exactly you had expected in return. (You didn't think much at all, is the only logical explanation.) You can hardly blame him for what must seem like the natural reaction – the pressure of his lips as he kisses your finger – but you immediately pull your hand away as if the simple gesture had burned you, anyway.</p>
<p>That was on you, really.</p>
<p>Too affectionate. That's not what you are doing here. That's not what this is <i>for</i>. This is calming. Grounding. Keeps him from doing dangerous, stupidly human things with sharp objects. Most of the time, anyway.</p>
<p>(Part of you wants to leave, just for a moment, just until the thought that he made the conscious decision to kiss you, part of you, feels less overwhelming, but that would, of course, be incredibly bad etiquette. (A yet smaller part of you is tempted to do it regardless. (You don't, naturally. You like clear rules, and you like sticking to them.)))</p>
<p>Instead you sit back and let go of the leash, clink-clink-clink. "I will keep you like this for another few minutes," you tell him, and he nods.</p>
<p>Both of you stay like this, then, quiet. Breathing. Both of you breathing. He's still  very, very calm.</p>
<p>Good. </p>
<p>You let a little more than nine minutes pass, until he starts shifting slightly, not uncomfortable, you think, so much as made restless by the all the silence and the waiting, and then you reach for the blindfold.</p>
<p>"Alright?" you ask again, and he nods and exhales slowly as you pull it off. The cuffs follow, and then the collar.</p>
<p>This part– </p>
<p>"Let me look at your wrists." You grab his wrists, gently, and rub your thumbs over them. The cuffs haven't even left any marks – you knew they must be alright, but</p>
<p>–well. It's less that you dislike this part. You're just not … all that good at it. It feels more like playing a role than the entire rest of it, and you are not exactly … well, you're not someone for <i>cuddling</i>, not really. You think you would be extremely uncomfortable with the concept.</p>
<p>(You can't be sure, not really. Not without trying it. That wouldn't be very scientific; never testing this assumption. But you're not very eager to test it now.)</p>
<p>You do what you can without feeling clumsy, instead.</p>
<p>You have water for him, hand it to him, make sure he drinks. He does, and he lets you wrap new bandages over the cuts on his arm, and neither of you speaks, because he seldom does, and because you wouldn't know what to say.</p>
<p>You ask him if he needs anything else, and he shakes his head. Lying on his back, covers pulled to his chin. He blinks at you. Slowly – content and tired and like a cat and so fond of you, for some reason.</p>
<p>"...But can you – stay? Here? Until, just until I'm asleep?"</p>
<p>You slowly blink back,</p>
<p>(you didn't expect him to speak at all, today)</p>
<p>and nod. "Certainly, yes."</p>
<p>He smiles, just a little, before he closes his eyes, and you sit next to him, and you stay.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I'm <a href="https://electricshoop.tumblr.com">on tumblr</a>.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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